Bronx, NY, USA Lanes
12-22-06, 01:38 PM
Between Warriors and Boys
As seen by his armor, he is a man.
His hard baggy jeans hang below his shoes,
Touching the biting tarmac where intensity tramples.
He wears a distinguished jacket, demanding honor.
The recent and merciless temperatures call for defense;
They have dragged other knights to their sick beds.
Checking for his five-inch sword, he embarks on another journey.
For months, the people have been attacked, and he, a savage,
Brought salvage, with or without the help of his friends.
In the last rumble, he fended off three boys without his sword.
With out his father’s intervention, he would have killed his foes.
Mostly sons are killed, because it is they who battle.
Fathers eventually become kings, and reside at home. Wise men.
Through their teenagers’ tributes, they are remembered.
Our hero was born in a world of peace and wealth,
But in an area of plight and persecution -- an unfair world.
This Hotspur is taught to be strong and unreasonable.
He returns blows when young, and later, learns to strike first.
Aggressive actions aid his ability to administrate the streets,
Still, great gallants come, and then go, a result of assimilation.
By this, a boy builds his own basket of babbles, and a eulogy awaits.
He stands on the sidewalk sharply at seven, to initiate a legend.
It’s daytime, but the mood is dark as dense clouds hover.
The buildings crowd the streets, as the inhabitants do of them.
But it is still empty streets that extend for miles on sordid roads
Where the new monuments seem used, and waste flows on the floor.
Those with any prestige steer away from the early drift.
Reckless, old men come out, donating life and death for chemicals
And for the Renaissance man; the warrior who practices medicine.
At night, lights shine through street lamps, and dilapidation is masked.
Brightness brings more density to the asphalt, sometimes more intensity.
Arguments, boasts, disrespect, strength, courage, laughter.
This is the block, the mead hall for this race. Drink. Smoke.
Recognition of his routine riles him, but mostly hurts.
To die by honor, will allow him to kill when he is threatened.
But teen angst turns tedious, and trouble tires.
Existing experimentally, by the moment, he is a mess.
He breaks down, like a structure of a poem, looking for
That final line that will develop meaning and life.
Life lengthens, ceases suddenly, and then reads like a book,
Showing history, flattering few, shunning some, molding many.
Our fighter leaves a legacy, but one lacking length -- it stops at death.
Individual years do not persist -- the earth has too many of them.
Warrior ethics indicate reward. But without heirs, without years,
Boys are defeated, until I write this funeral song, and extol a warrior.
As seen by his armor, he is a man.
His hard baggy jeans hang below his shoes,
Touching the biting tarmac where intensity tramples.
He wears a distinguished jacket, demanding honor.
The recent and merciless temperatures call for defense;
They have dragged other knights to their sick beds.
Checking for his five-inch sword, he embarks on another journey.
For months, the people have been attacked, and he, a savage,
Brought salvage, with or without the help of his friends.
In the last rumble, he fended off three boys without his sword.
With out his father’s intervention, he would have killed his foes.
Mostly sons are killed, because it is they who battle.
Fathers eventually become kings, and reside at home. Wise men.
Through their teenagers’ tributes, they are remembered.
Our hero was born in a world of peace and wealth,
But in an area of plight and persecution -- an unfair world.
This Hotspur is taught to be strong and unreasonable.
He returns blows when young, and later, learns to strike first.
Aggressive actions aid his ability to administrate the streets,
Still, great gallants come, and then go, a result of assimilation.
By this, a boy builds his own basket of babbles, and a eulogy awaits.
He stands on the sidewalk sharply at seven, to initiate a legend.
It’s daytime, but the mood is dark as dense clouds hover.
The buildings crowd the streets, as the inhabitants do of them.
But it is still empty streets that extend for miles on sordid roads
Where the new monuments seem used, and waste flows on the floor.
Those with any prestige steer away from the early drift.
Reckless, old men come out, donating life and death for chemicals
And for the Renaissance man; the warrior who practices medicine.
At night, lights shine through street lamps, and dilapidation is masked.
Brightness brings more density to the asphalt, sometimes more intensity.
Arguments, boasts, disrespect, strength, courage, laughter.
This is the block, the mead hall for this race. Drink. Smoke.
Recognition of his routine riles him, but mostly hurts.
To die by honor, will allow him to kill when he is threatened.
But teen angst turns tedious, and trouble tires.
Existing experimentally, by the moment, he is a mess.
He breaks down, like a structure of a poem, looking for
That final line that will develop meaning and life.
Life lengthens, ceases suddenly, and then reads like a book,
Showing history, flattering few, shunning some, molding many.
Our fighter leaves a legacy, but one lacking length -- it stops at death.
Individual years do not persist -- the earth has too many of them.
Warrior ethics indicate reward. But without heirs, without years,
Boys are defeated, until I write this funeral song, and extol a warrior.